From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Devotional Stories for Tough Times

Today, Not Tomorrow

By Cari Weber

I call on you, my God, for you will answer me; turn your ear to me and hear my prayer.
~Psalm 17:6

"I'm sorry," the bank teller said. "Your check has bounced."
Her words took a moment to sink in. This year had brought so much pain. A divorce, losing my house because of the divorce, then the loss of my job right before the holidays... and now the check for my car insurance had bounced!

Choking back tears, I asked, "May I talk with someone about the overdraft fees?"
"You can try, but my supervisor never budges."
Moments later, I met with the supervisor. I could barely explain how I recently lost my job before the tears started flowing. Incredibly, she agreed to remove all overdraft fees.
Leaving the bank, I wondered what I would do. My unemployment checks were delayed due to a glitch in the system, and everything seemed to be piling up. How long could I last without an income?
Although it was only 5:30 P.M., it was already dark outside. December in Michigan meant it was not only dark, but cold and snowy. Despite that, I had an urge to take a walk on my favorite trail. Being cold and dark also meant there was a good chance no one else would be out, so I decided to go.
On the trail, I was grateful for sounds of rushing water coming from the creek. They covered my soft sobs while I walked. Tonight, it all felt like too much to bear.
At one point, I stopped and cried out to God. With a broken spirit, I said aloud, "Lord, I really need help right now. Today. Not tomorrow. Not the next day... today." Then I wondered: Who was I to talk to the God of the universe in this way?
Eventually, when my tears dried up, I headed home. Approaching my apartment door, I noticed something bulky hanging on the handle. Probably another bill, I thought. While I struggled with my boots, I could see a card with my name on it through the clear plastic bag. Reaching in, I took out a very small, white padded envelope. Inside the envelope was a beautiful card with no name written on it, but it was stuffed with gift cards. Hundreds of dollars of gift cards that could meet my urgent needs!
I was in shock and awe. The timing of this amazing anonymous gift, arriving at exactly the right moment, was almost too much to comprehend. Again, I began crying, but now they were tears of joy. I felt so loved. The God of the universe really cared about my little life! God heard my cries from a cold, dark, lonely place, and assured me that He does hear and will provide.

From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Runners

Running Home

By Melissa Blanco

There's nothing half so pleasant as coming home again.
~Margaret Elizabeth Sangster

I slowly tied the laces of my running shoes, imagining that he was doing the same. It was eleven hours ahead where he was stationed — although the distance felt much farther. The weather outside was overcast, a typical Western Washington morning. The clouds filling the sky and steady threat of precipitation were a stark contrast to the hot and dusty terrain he would navigate through. Our iPods played the same music, having been downloaded from the same computer several months earlier. We would breathe in the same broken pattern, running at the same speed, yet we'd be a world apart.

I stepped onto the sidewalk, pushing the jogging stroller that carried our toddler through the tree-lined street, passing homes filled with electronics, toys, and plentiful food. I wondered what he was looking at as he prepared for his workout. The pictures he'd sent home contained images of dust storms and dirt roads strewn with gravel. The homes were simple, the villages housed inside brick walls, with no decorative waterfalls or greenery. Children came out to greet the soldiers, begging in Arabic for candy, pens, and pencils. He was able to decipher what they asked, handing over all of the pens he carried in his uniform pocket.
I ran at a steady pace, breathing in the cool air, waiting for the endorphin rush which always accompanied my run. The only fear that lay ahead of me was the anticipation of the hills I'd embark upon during my exercise, while pushing a stroller. Neighbors waved as I ran past, nodding their heads while tending to their flower beds or gathering their morning newspaper. My older children had already departed on the school bus, where they were guaranteed a day of learning, fun, and safety. I calmly switched to a song with a more upbeat tempo, to push me through my morning run, as the tiredness and worry which consumed each day threatened to halt my workout.
I imagined him setting out on his run, along the dusty streets of the military base, in Western Iraq, during what was his second overseas deployment. He'd jog in the secure enclosure of a fenced-off installation, guarded by soldiers. There were no neighbors doing yard work or carefree kids leaving for school. The grade school children in the neighboring village walked along the gravel roads, if they were able to attend school at all. He ran in the secure enclosure to avoid the threat of hidden explosive devices and the stray bullets of insurgents, eager to hurt him if the opportunity arose. He ran outside cautiously, only if the dust sat close to the ground and the burn pits were not ablaze, to spare his lungs.
My heartbeat strengthened as I pushed the jogging stroller that carried our youngest daughter, to the rhythm of my movement. I wasn't prepared to say goodbye to my husband as he left for another twelve-month deployment. I'd found few things as heartwrenching as the looks of fear and confusion on the faces of our children in the months he'd been gone. I'd like to think I possessed a mountain of inner strength in the midst of fear that soldiers would arrive at my front door to deliver the news that my husband of twelve years had been killed in the line of duty. That, however, would be untrue — the fear was always there, in the back of my mind, from the moment I woke in the morning, through the nightmares in my sleep.
I pushed myself further, knowing that although my life was filled with unpredictable, chaotic, and overwhelming moments, running was something I still controlled. I wasn't the fastest runner, or the one with the most endurance, but I ran because I enjoyed it, because it gave me energy, and filled me with power. When I ran, I didn't feel the fear or loneliness — I rather felt strength, as though I was capable of handling the pressures of being his military wife, their single mother, and the person I wanted to be when I looked in the mirror at night.
I visualized my husband, winded as he continued his nightly run, wearing his standard physical training uniform, black shorts with a gray T-shirt. As his heart pulsed a steady beat, I recognized he was running for his life, to survive the rigors and dangers of war. He exercised to fend off the boredom that crept into his daily routine, to stave off the loneliness in the quiet hours of his night, and to forget the regret he carried with him over being so far away from his children when they cried for him. Although he was in Iraq — not running with me — he was running toward us, in an effort to come home. Amid the stifling hot weather, the soldiers in uniform, and care packages lovingly sent by priority mail, he was trying to cross the finish line of one of the longest races of his life.
As I rounded the corner onto our street, I felt his strength beside me, picturing the beads of sweat lining his forehead as his stride lengthened. Even half a world away, his presence was felt in our everyday lives, as though he were sitting with us at the dinner table or reading bedtime stories with the kids. I heard the sound of his laughter as we raced toward the house, challenging one another to finish first. My heart knew that while I ran alone, he was always with me in every step I took.
I looked at the flower beds in front of our house, where the tulips poked through the early spring ground, a reminder that he would return home in just a few months. Eventually, we would cross this finish line together — having survived another deployment. It was a race we'd always remember and look back on with both happy and painful memories, forever thankful for the life we've built together. We will continue to run beside one another, knowing that no matter the course, each race is worth the challenge.

From Chicken Soup for the Soul: What I Learned from the Cat

Practice Makes Purr-fect

By Michelle Mach

There are two means of refuge from the misery of life — music and cats.
~Albert Schweitzer

In high school, I decided to learn to play the piano. It was a decision based primarily on dreams of playing music on stage, rather than an affinity for a particular type of music. Plus, I already knew how to read music, so I figured the piano would be a snap. After a few lessons with a local teacher, my dream of instant musical fame hit a snag — I loved to play, but I hated to practice. To non-musicians, playing and practicing might seem interchangeable, but the lack of an audience made it difficult for me to play for more than a few minutes. Bored and lonely, I would drift away from the piano after a few bars of music. My lifelong love affair with the piano might have ended after a few short weeks if not for the instruction of an unlikely teacher — the family cat.

Jonathan was a highly intelligent, inquisitive Siamese/tabby mix. The biggest cat of the litter, he was the alpha cat in the household of humans and he knew it. He meowed loudly and insistently when he wanted to be fed. He vigorously scratched the back of the sofa even after he was declawed, delighting in the game of chase that invariably ensued when he was caught. He loved to perch atop bookcases, windowsills, and the refrigerator — anywhere high enough that he could swat at people's heads when they walked by. While he would sometimes deign to sit on selected laps, he was not the cuddly, nurturing cat found in storybooks and pet food advertisements.
That's why I found it odd one day when he decided to jump up on the piano bench and sit quietly next to me as I played Pachelbel's Canon in D Major. The choice of music, as always, had been my teacher's; I shrugged in response whenever she tried to engage me in the selection process. From my view, one type of music wasn't much different than another. I played what I was told to play.
Jonathan's eyes followed my hands as I played, his dark tail quietly swishing back and forth like a metronome. The Pachelbel finished, I reached for a short piece with lots of staccato notes. It only took a couple of notes to see that this song had a different effect on my audience of one. Jonathan swiped at my hand with his paw and looked at me. Ow! I stopped and glared at him. I played a few more notes. Swat. Stop. Swat. Stop. Was he tired of my playing? Or did he just want to be fed? I put the music away, relieved to have an excuse to stop practicing.
The next time at the piano, Jonathan again jumped up beside me and again, he reacted the same way — waiting patiently during some songs and swatting his paw at me during others. Over the next few months, practice became fascinating. I couldn't wait to try out new songs and see how he felt about them. Classical was a good bet, as were church hymns, while themes from TV, movies, or musicals were hit and miss. Sometimes his tastes made me laugh. "Memories" from Cats was a winner, while "Linus and Lucy," the Peanuts theme, was not. As silly as it sounds, I tried to please him as much as possible. The increased practice time improved my playing immensely, at least on songs that were "cat approved." My teacher puzzled aloud over how some pieces progressed while others didn't, since the difficulty of the piece didn't seem to figure into the equation. When she chalked it up to me developing my own taste in music, I didn't correct her. It was too embarrassing to explain.
Jonathan and I might have continued like that for a while, with me bending my music to suit him, just as I curved my body around his when he took the prime middle spot in the middle of my bed at night. But then my teacher gave me a book of ragtime. For the first time, I found a type of music I truly loved. I enjoyed the odd rhythms and the pleasing clash of notes in Scott Joplin's "Maple Leaf Rag" and the other ragtime tunes. Jonathan hated it. He swatted repeatedly at my hands. Eventually, I had to shut him in the bedroom during those songs. I felt bad that I couldn't play just for him — what kind of musician deliberately plays songs that she knows her audience hates? But at the same time, I wasn't willing to let go of my newfound love. I had finally found something I was willing to fight for.
Luckily, Jonathan didn't seem to hold it against me — he'd still occasionally sit on my lap or rub his head against my leg when I finished practicing. I took courage from the idea that it was okay to express different opinions and still be respected. Rejection of your work was not rejection of you. It was one person's opinion. It wasn't until I was an adult working in creative careers such as writing and jewelry design that I truly appreciated this lesson. No matter what was said in a rejection letter from a publisher, editor, reader, or contest judge, it was much less painful than a swat of a paw from a curmudgeonly cat!
Reprinted by permission of Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing, LLC (c) 2009. In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent. All rights reserved.

Does Music have a Calming Effect on Your Pet?

From Chicken Soup : Thanks Dad...

Pops

By Lizy Herrera

Adversity introduces a man to himself.
~Author Unknown

I can vividly remember standing alongside my mother's grave as her shiny, lilac casket was lowered into the ground. I was five years old. As friends and family threw flowers into the grave, I recall throwing a letter that I had written. Then I watched it descend into the open earth.

During the ceremony, my father masked his pain by holding back his tears as he received consolation from those who surrounded him. He held the three of us close in his arms, and with a knot in his throat he whispered, "I promise you girls that everything is going to be okay." Although we were too young to understand, my father tried hard to remain strong for my two younger sisters and me. My father was only twenty-five years old when he took on the challenging role of both mother and father. From that moment on, he devoted himself to providing a life of happiness and fulfillment for us as we grew up without the love of a mother.
For many years, my father worked long hours with complex and dangerous factory machinery. Although this physically demanding job consumed his energy, he always managed a smile when we greeted him at the door with open arms. He attended many of our school functions as well, events that were often painful without our mother. My sisters and I dreaded most of all the annual Mother's Day performance at our elementary school. Watching so many mothers gazing at their children with admiration made our participation difficult. But our sadness faded as we saw our dad smiling proudly by the back doors. As a grown woman, I now understand how hard this must have been for him.
His endless sacrifice took a toll. When I was a teenager, my father suffered a back injury at work that resulted in the loss of his job. We experienced a tough economic time, as he was out of work for several years. However, my sisters and I never felt deprived of anything because of the love and attention he bestowed upon us. In spite of the physical back pain and emotional stress, he used this long stretch at home to attend our sporting events and chaperone school field trips. Fully present for his children, he spent hours and hours with us inventing new silly games that always ended with tears of laughter. He even shared stories about our mother as we listened to music.
Eventually, my father regained the strength to find work, though he was precluded from physical labor. Because he had never graduated from high school, it became extremely challenging for him to find employment. Most of the job offers he received paid less than what he needed to provide for our family. As a result, my father decided to complete high school by pursuing a GED. I can clearly remember waking up at night and seeing him lying on the living room floor with his books scattered alongside as he studied and prepared for the exam. His diligence and commitment to his studies paid off when he passed the exam and was able to find a fulfilling position as a school assistant and athletics coach at an elementary school.
I am forever grateful to my father for his unconditional love and for being the best parent he could be, even during the toughest times in our lives. His endless sacrifices and commitment to putting us first have not gone unnoticed. Twenty-five years ago he told my sisters and me that everything was going to be okay, and he has kept his promise ever since.